


Silent Night

by maidenstar



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Morning, Friendship, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, It's a Wonderful Life, No pairings - Freeform, SHIELD, Team Bonding, The Hub - Freeform, What Ifs, festive, inspired by it's a wonderful life, no otps, team fic, team friendship, tw: loss, what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-03 02:35:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maidenstar/pseuds/maidenstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A despondent Coulson is lacking in holiday spirit as the clock on his desk counts down the minutes to Christmas morning. Feeling bereft and without purpose, he's given the chance to see how each member of his team's life would be different on Christmas morning if he hadn't brought them together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Phil Coulson

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! Quick disclaimer that this is my first ever AoS fic and is 100% not beta read, so please let me know if there are any glaring errors in grammar, characterisation or anything really.
> 
> This piece is sort of an It's A Wonderful Life and A Christmas Carol inspired thing, and on the lead up to Christmas I'll be looking into where the team might be (with a chapter for each Ward, Skye and May, and a combined one for FitzSimmons) if Coulson hadn't put them together. Please assume that the team have been together for a fair amount of time; a good few months to a year or so at least.
> 
> Lastly, I'm a final year uni student, approaching deadlines with lots of stress for the next two weeks. Please be forgiving if updates are a little slow until about the 16th.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognise and there's no infringement intended on Marvel's Agents of SHIELD or It's A Wonderful Life. I get nothing but a sense of enjoyment out of writing this, but I have been nice all year and am hoping Santa will bring me Ming-Na Wen, Elizabeth Henstridge and Iain De Caestecker for Christmas because they are just too darned adorable.
> 
> Anyway, please do read and let me know what you think!

He flinched a little as the unexpectedly cold coffee touched his lips, setting his mug down and swiping the back of his hand against his face with a sigh.

He noted with a shock that it was already 11.15pm. He hadn't realised just how long he'd been sitting there, trying to plough through the paperwork. No wonder his coffee was cold, he'd made it hours ago.

He strained his ears into the silence to see if the team was still up. He could rarely hear anything from his office-come-bedroom anyway (wasn't there research that said you should keep your work and leisure spaces separate?) but the hour, the date and the ringing silence made him think it was likely his team would all be tucked up in their bunks, as well they should.

He set his pen down, leaning back in his chair and pinching the bridge of his nose as he sighed. How he wished he could call it a night. He wasn't sure Big SHIELD or Agent Blake would be too understanding though.

He disliked that man with a rare passion he usually reserved for real criminals or Asgardian demigods. Blake had always seemed to have something against Coulson – May had, in her usual simple honesty, called it jealousy. Coulson privately disagreed, but whatever it was, Blake seemed to enjoy making his life as difficult as possible, even if he had to go out of his way to do so.

Shaking his head slightly at his sombre mood, Coulson got up from behind his desk and paced around his office for a moment, trying to stretch his legs as much as possible in the confined space. He wasn't, by nature, a despondent person. It didn't fit well with the job description, not caring. You were supposed to care, but not too much. Just enough to spur you on to get your mission done. Nonetheless, right now, he had to admit he was feeling pretty low. It wasn't just the complaint Blake had filed about his team that had him filling in paperwork at this hour. Sure, that was a big part of it. After all, it had been pretty unjust. It had all started when what should have been a simple mission gathering intel had gone south. Skye and Ward, though the latter would never admit it, had been in serious danger twenty storeys up in a mark's compound. May was on the ground doing as much as she could but she was fighting against an endless tide of men and against time the team didn't have. He had told FitzSimmons to do whatever was necessary to save their teammates. Under pressure they had done what they did best; worked together to solve the problem. Their solution – a lot of explosive science he didn't really understand – had been unorthodox, a little foolish even. But it had gotten the job done, the team were all in one piece, no civilians had been hurt, the cover story held and they'd even recovered the intel.

And yet, the next day, Coulson had received a call informing him that Blake, who had put in for the mission in the first place (and had been none too happy it had gone to Coulson's team), was filing a complaint. Something about unnecessary damage and negligence on the part of the agents involved. That simple yellow form had not only grounded the team for a week while the bumps were all smoothed out with Fury, but it had seriously shaken up the two scientists on the team. For all he tried not to get more attached than necessary, he couldn't help but think about them with a strong, father-like fondness. Jemma, as he thought of her in private, with all her sweet and sometimes nervous energy was still shaken with memories of the Sitwell debacle and as serious as her ongoing fear at being court-martialled was, he still had to stop himself outright laughing at the thought of little Jemma Simmons successfully disabling a senior agent like Jasper Sitwell. Fitz too, was pretty worried this would get them fired, or at least, in his words, 'go on their records with a big red 'x' next to it, or whatever it was SHIELD did in these situations'.

He'd thought it best not to point out that what SHIELD _did_ do in these situations was much worse. Or at least, it was for a legitimate complaint. Blake knew there was nothing in this mess that would get Coulson and the team any more than a slap on the wrist and a bit of time out of action (as if he needed more). Phil just suspected he wanted to cause trouble, especially after the rebuffs he'd given him when Jemma had been infected, his strict email blast about visiting agents not touching Lola and a few past _disagreements_ he probably shouldn't think about too much. He could feel a headache coming on.

But while this had all contributed to his less than shiny mood, it wasn't only that. He was preoccupied, he couldn't help it. His brush with death still threw him for a loop every time he thought about it, and he thought about it every day. On multiple occasions. He still hadn't shaken the baffling habit of blurting out the words 'it's a magical place' every time someone mentioned Tahiti and most nights he awoke in a cold sweat after dreaming about the place, or the event, that had put him there. He was beginning to fear there was something more to the injury - and to Tahiti - than he had been given to believe, but every inroad he'd tried to make into doing his own investigations had been blocked and he had no doubt that Fury had had a large part to play in that. It, honestly, infuriated him in a way that little else could that he had died, but the Director had decided he didn't qualify for the detailed account of events. May had soothingly told him to Trust The System, more than once in the past few weeks and months, but he really couldn't see how even Level 8 clearance wasn't enough for this. If the dreams about being stabbed didn't plague his sleep, then these thoughts did.

As preoccupying was his more general low mood and, as much as it was such a cliché it pained him, he always felt this way at this time of year. The holidays gave him a chance to reflect on what he had. But it also reminded him what he didn't have. It wasn't that he indulged in maudlin outbursts (mentally or literally) lamenting that he was in his mid-forties and had none of the things most men in their mid-forties had; a partner, a house, kids all of that. It wasn't even necessarily that he wanted any of it. But almost inevitably, with all the emphasis put upon these things at this time of year, it was hard not to think about your own life. And Phil Coulson was no different. He couldn't help but think about some of the missions he'd played a part in, some of the less savoury things he'd done in a pinch, the fact that his last few Christmases had all been spent largely on his own, sat in his office and filing paperwork. Just what he should be doing right now he thought with a grimace, finally sitting back down at his desk. He briefly thought about calling Karen, but didn't suppose putting a call through to Portland at 11.30 at night was the best idea and for all he knew, some other guy would be there to pick up the phone by now. She had been rather beautiful.

He huffed a sigh and went back to the forms in front of him. He didn't hate the holidays per se, just wished they could pass him by without such a fanfare. After all, they weren't for people like him, they were for people like FitzSimmons and Skye, who had been bouncing off the walls for the last 10 days (Ward and May had drawn the line at them decorating and playing Christmas songs before the second week of December – they weren't exactly Christmas people either and they enjoyed their peace and quiet). The younger members of the team had spent their time on the ground decorating the Bus, playing Christmas songs and films and baking an array of cookies and cakes that almost had Coulson wishing he was joining in the festivities; Jemma really was a fantastic cook. They'd even installed a tiny fake tree on the coffee table where, they'd informed Coulson in voices that suggested that he no choice but to participate, they'd be opening presents on Christmas morning, so they needed to have a tree somehow.

And despite all of their delighted energy, he couldn't help but think their day would be better spent without him darkening the mood. Even May, for all her quiet melancholy moods and preference for quiet solitude, had sought out the team's company more and more over the last week, clearly soaking up the happiness from the others, while Coulson had secluded himself in his office, citing paperwork every time they tried to coax him out.

He propped his head up on his hand, as he filled the forms in as diligently as possible, despite the heavy tiredness settling over him. He signed his name across a few lines at the bottom of the latest bureaucratic document, scratching his pen into the paper more as the ink began to run dry and felt his eyes begin to droop a little lower. He didn't know when he got so old that he started falling asleep at his desk, head on his hand but, before he knew it, he was in a heavy slumber.

* * *

He opened his eyes, panicked, and for a moment believed he would be lying in bed once again trying to shake memories of Tahiti from his mind. The panic that had briefly subsided was back in full force as he took stock of where he was and it was a moment before the logical part of him told him that this was a dream, as he had done many times before; lucid dreaming did have its benefits. It was cold wherever he was and a light drizzle landed on his face but did not linger. He squinted into the dim light, and through the mist that was floating lazily around, picking out row upon row of shadowy shapes. He couldn't quite believe his eyes and yet...yes, he seemed to be in a graveyard. Why in the world would his subconscious take him there?


	2. Grant Ward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, thank you to absolutely everyone who left kudos on first chapter! It means a lot to know that people are reading and, I hope, enjoying this. Please do let me know what’s working and what’s not for you and I’ll do my best to write the rest accordingly! 
> 
> I just wanted to add a note to say that by writing these scenarios, I'm not saying I think for definite that this is where each character would be on Christmas in this given year, I just wanted to play with the whole IAWL concept that even if you can't see the good in what you do without you, life could take people to a whole different (possibly terrible) place and I just wanted to show Coulson where his team might be without him bringing them together is all – I'm not just crazy angsty all the time! (And this is gonna be the last long A/N I swear)

A graveyard. Really? In honesty, Coulson was perhaps a little disappointed at his own lack of creativity, on a subconscious level at least. After all, this was clearly just a rather macabre product of his current mood. With that, he studiously tried to avoid thinking about the cold seeping into his toes thanks to the thin material of his shoes or the way the mist weaved its intricate shapes around him, because that really didn't feel like the kind of thing you'd dream about, even lucidly, and he simply couldn't entertain the notion that he had somehow materialised in a cemetery for no good reason. He wasn't crazy.

Was he?

He turned around, trying to see if he knew more specifically where he was, but the weather made things much harder, and in reality one graveyard was much like another anyway.

All around him was silence except for the slight whistling of the breeze. Deciding arbitrarily on a direction in which to go, he moved off and ploughed through the soft, waterlogged grass, hoping for some indication as to where the exit was and that he'd find it sooner rather than later; he wasn't a superstitious man, but working at SHIELD had certainly opened his mind to the more _mysterious_ parts of the universe. Besides, he really, really didn't like graveyards that much. People said they were calming and tranquil, and yes sure, they were, but that had a lot to do with the fact that they were filled with death and mourners. He understood it when people said that in some ways life was there too, in all its infinite complexity, but he couldn't help but think that you'd also probably find that at the arrivals gate in an airport, or a busy city centre, or probably even just a Denny's or something. Anything else but a graveyard, really. His own brush with death had left him even less keen to visit a cemetery before someone was installing his cold, dead body into one.

As he wended his way here and there, his hand accidentally brushed the corner of a headstone. Or it should have, but he instead felt nothing, just air. He tried again, reaching out for the grey marble but as he did so, it seemed to turn to nothing under his fingers.

His heart beat a little faster. Well that was weird.

 _Nothing to worry about,_ he told himself, _dreams never make sense._ Because this was quite clearly just a dream.

He continued through the maze of headstones without much success when a dark shape appeared in the mist in front of him. Gradually, a tall, broad figure came into focus and it was a surprisingly long moment before he realised that he knew the dark-haired man that appeared.

Although, maybe that was because the Grant Ward in front of him was almost unrecognisable – a far cry from the man he worked with every day on the Bus. He had the look of a person at their physical peak, but who could not be bothered to look after themselves in certain other ways; his posture made him seem haggard and tired, and his face was pale and a little sunken, dark circles like smudged thumb-prints under his eyes. He loosely held a small, simple wreath in his hand and appeared to be tracing a familiar path, for even though his eyes were pointed forwards it was obvious he was not seeing anything as he walked. Lost in intense thought, with his lips curved slightly downwards, he cut a very forlorn figure as he traipsed along.

Oddly, Coulson felt the sudden urge to turn around and leave. Whatever Ward was doing here, it was clearly private and he had no right to interfere or intrude, even in dream-Ward's business. Out of respect, he began to back away slowly and quietly, when Ward came to a stop at a headstone nearby. For all his awareness training, the younger man hadn't noticed his colleague standing so close by and this in itself was enough to pique Coulson's interest and keep him lingering for a moment longer than he knew he should.

It was then that Ward glanced over, right in the direction that Coulson was standing and…stared right through him for a long moment.

Confused and a little bit shaken that Ward hadn't noticed him, he threw caution to the wind and lightly called out his name, but Ward made no sign that he'd heard him. Coulson walked a bit closer, even touched him lightly on the shoulder (with the same non-effect as when he'd touched the gravestone earlier), but Ward gave no indication that he knew Coulson was there.

Odd. He'd never been invisible in his dreams before. More than a little rattled by now, he considered the alternatives he hadn't wanted to think about before; hallucination linked to delirium, virus, drugs or illness? It hardly seemed likely, but neither did the idea that he really was standing in a foggy graveyard with this dejected version of Ward who apparently could neither see nor hear him, and only minutes after he had started his paperwork again. He briefly entertained the notion that Fitzsimmons might have been working on some strange piece of tech in the lab, and caused them all to end up in different dimensions, or realities or something. Well, he'd be having stern words with them when he got back, or woke up, or whatever he had to do to get out of here.

He was distracted from his own worries as, beside him, Ward dropped to a crouch with an audible, shuddering sigh. He brushed aside the remnants of old flowers at the foot of the gravestone, and replaced them with the wreath before stretching the sleeve of his jacket over the heel of his hand and using it to wipe away the thick layer of dust and grime completely obscuring the words on the stone. When it was largely cleared, although smeared and still more than a little dirty, Coulson was able to read the name and dates carved into the headstone with no difficulty at all:

 _Stephen Ward._ _  
__January 7, 1981 – February 2, 1991_

Coulson felt his throat tighten for a moment. This was the grave of Ward's younger brother, the brother that never made it out of the well in the family garden. The brother whose death haunted Ward every day, because he would never stop believing that he could, and should, have done more to save him. From what Coulson had been able to tell from the psych evaluation in Ward's file, it had been a long time before he had stopped asking what would have been if he'd acted sooner, although for all Coulson knew, he had never truly accepted that his elder brother probably _would_ have thrown him into the well too, and that there was nothing he could have done.

He half expected Ward to have a one-sided conversation like they did in the movies, and although Coulson had no idea what thoughts had passed through his mind, the other man remained silent, simply crouched on the soft, wet ground, staring intently at the name on the headstone, eyes maybe just a little shiny.

By the time Ward rose what felt like aeons later, the wet mud had stained an ugly dark patch on one knee of his jeans, but he didn't seem to notice. He spared one last look at the grave, and turned away. Although it may have been a trick of the mind or the whistle of the breeze, Coulson thought he heard Ward whisper three words as he walked slowly away.

_"I'm so sorry."_

It took Coulson a moment to consider whether he should follow Ward. Sensing that he probably should, and altogether fed up with the mist and the cold, he kept a good four or five paces behind and followed his colleague, trying without much conviction to speak to him as they went, until they had weaved their way to the iron gates of the cemetery, into a parking lot and finally back to a nondescript, slightly worse-for-wear car.

Without really understanding how, Coulson found himself observing Ward drive as he sat in the passenger seat beside him. For a moment he was perplexed and troubled, and tried to understand how he had gotten there without realising, but given the bigger picture, the logistics of getting into a car without realising it really didn't seem to matter for that long.

The rain picked up as they hurtled along, the wiper blades struggling to keep up against the sudden downpour. The man on the radio informed Coulson that, to his surprise, it was ten o'clock on Christmas morning and if it weren't for the fact that he was, by now, largely sure this wasn't real, he'd have been more than a little alarmed at Ward's cavalier driving.

The first beats of _Holly Jolly Christmas_ sounded on the radio before Ward turned it off with an overly forceful slam of his palm.

He drove on in silence, his face set, a muscle in his jaw twitching occasionally.

* * *

Eventually, Coulson found himself in line in a waiting room of some kind. The floors were shiny and grey and at the front of the line, a uniformed man was patting people down.

_Was this a prison?_

He followed Ward, unseen, through all the basic checks, and eventually stood behind him as he sat stiffly on a cheap plastic chair, hands resting on the table in front of him. Once all the visitors were seated, a group of men trailed in. Some waived gaily, wide smiles on their faces that were incongruous with their orange jumpsuits (and the fact that they were high-security prisoners) as they spotted their friends or family, while some were more emotionless, eyes empty and almost unseeing. Since no one rushed, grinning, to their table, Coulson had to assume with a sinking heart they would be visiting someone in the latter category. He mentally went over Ward's file, trying to remember if he had declared any criminal contacts (mandatory SHIELD policy of course) but he needn't have bothered. As soon as he saw the man across the room, he knew who Ward was visiting.

A moment of shock seemed to pass across the man's face as he made his way over and Coulson couldn't help but think that in appearance, he was every bit Ward's brother. Well, the other one. As tall as Grant, if not slightly taller, he had the same dark hair, high cheekbones and broad shoulders. Evidently that was where many comparisons ended though, given their radically different circumstances. Even the way they carried themselves was different, while Ward's brother (Scott? Coulson thought he remembered a Scott in Ward's file) flopped heavily and nonchalantly into his chair, Ward's characteristic stiff posture and purposeful stride were the source of many jokes from the Bus' younger inhabitants.

And it was then, suddenly, that the perhaps obvious question hit him. Where was the rest of the team? Why was Ward here, alone, on Christmas morning when the look on his face suggested he would rather be anywhere else?

"Grant. What a pleasant surprise," his brother, the name on his jumpsuit confirming that Coulson's memory was still as sharp as ever, drawled, his voice implying that it was decidedly not a pleasant surprise. "Decided you'd pay your brother a visit on Christmas, huh?"

He received, in reply, what could only be described as a curt nod, and there was a silence about which the term 'awkward' couldn't even do close to justice. Coulson almost wanted to leave to escape it.

"How's things?" Ward – the team's Ward – eventually asked, the note to his voice suggesting that he knew it was a ridiculous question.

"Great. The musical numbers we do here every day get a bit grating sometimes, but can't complain."

Another silence in which Scott's eyes darted up and down, taking in every detail of his brother's appearance. Coulson wondered how long it had been since the two had seen each other.

They exchanged a few more minutes of idle chit chat, to which neither was especially committed. Even knowing he couldn't be seen, Coulson felt uncomfortable watching the unhappy reunion unfold, or drag on, depending on how you looked at it.

"Why are you here Grant?" Scott demanded quietly once it became clear that neither had anything to say to the other.

"You know full well why I came here," Ward replied sternly, eyes narrowed slightly.

His brother let out a small, mirthless laugh, more a sharp breath than anything else.

"Because mom begged you to." There was a note of grim satisfaction to his voice.

"Pretty much with her dying breath. Whenever I came home, I should call in. On both of you." Ward tried to look and sound careless, but Coulson knew him well enough now to read the signs that he was desperate to bolt, get out of this scenario.

"Ah yes, how was little Stephen?" Scott asked with an unsettling grin, and the attention of everyone in the room was drawn to the brothers as Grant slammed a fist onto the table. He made to leave.

"This was a mistake."

"It's not my fault the favourite son doesn't have anywhere else to be!" Scott called after Grant's retreating back, giving a harsh, empty laugh as he was led away by two prison guards.

* * *

The atmosphere of the journey away from the Cedar Junction Correctional Institute (as the sign had called it) was impossibly worse than the journey from the cemetery and as Ward kept on driving, any hopes that Coulson might have had that he was heading to see a loved one, or even back to the Bus and the team, seemed rather dim as they drove through what had to be the outskirts of the city. His heart sank, if possible, further when Ward pulled up to a parking lot outside what appeared to be a rather dated bar. A neon sign proclaimed that they were 'Open for Christmas!' and even in spite of its jolly neon green glow, Coulson found himself a little surprised at how many people were inside.

It wasn't packed by any account, but a fair few booths and stools were occupied by lone men or women, or the odd duo, nursing drinks, largely in silence.

"Ah, Grant! It's good to see you, son!" the man behind the bar greeted Ward, and Coulson noted that he was one of those people who seemed speak entirely in exclamations. They shook hands warmly. "The Army finally give you a Christmas off, huh?!"

Yes, Coulson had known that Grant's cover story had him working in the Armed Forces, it was more than plausible, really.

"Well, the Major thought it was about time I took the holidays off, so I thought I'd come home for a while."

In his head, Coulson translated Ward's reply as it should have sounded: _my SO wanted me to get away for a bit, take some time off SHIELD duty and I didn't know where else to go._

Ward, like so many SHIELD agents, was notoriously hard to coax into taking a holiday. Coulson had conducted battle after battle with agents he'd supervised who didn't ever want to take the time off that SHIELD offered them, much less accept that they needed it. He'd heard every excuse in the book a million times over; 'it's not as though I've got anywhere to go' or 'I hardly have a nice family home in Long Island to visit for the weekend' or 'it's not like I don't do enough travelling on the job'.

Coulson had never understood it. He personally loved taking short breaks when time allowed (that Strawberry Festival in Ridgley had been positively delightful) and he was weary of having to force agents to take a few weeks leave here and there. True, he could hardly imagine many SHIELD Agents, Ward among them, sipping piña coladas, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and lying on a beach somewhere, but would it really be so hard to maybe just take a walking holiday in Europe or something?

He studiously ignored the voice in his head reminding him about his previously planned solitude for Christmas Day as he followed Ward to a stool nearby.

In the end, Coulson passed a less than happy Christmas Day watching Ward drink himself into oblivion before, a blink later, he found himself on a somewhat familiar city sidewalk. It appeared to be rather late at night and the streets were wet and shining, but it wasn't raining as it had been in Massachusetts.

It was perhaps one of his greatest moments of panic since he'd re-entered the field.

_What, in God's great name, was going on?_

He no longer felt it was worth trying to tell himself that this was just a normal dream, and resolved instead to try and work out what was going on but, just as he did so, he heard raised voices from a side street a few metres away. He couldn't help feeling that he most certainly _had_ been here before as he passed the front window of a café he felt he knew, on his way to investigate the source of commotion (curiosity and concern despite the seeming unreality of the whole situation getting the better of him). Unless anything had changed, no one would see him taking a quick look anyway.

He thought he might have a slightly better idea of what was going on when he found himself facing a young woman, a police officer and an all too familiar old van.


	3. Skye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm really sorry this took so long, the last week of term kicked my ass. I hope this is worth the wait but I'm worried it isn't. I struggled with getting into Skye's voice/head more than any other character, sorry about that.
> 
> Small piece of unnecessary info, I edited this as I watched end of the The Grinch. The rather sad Faith Hill version of Where Are You Christmas? was playing and I sort of wanted to curl into a ball and cry. Happy Holidays y'all.
> 
> Please let me know how I can improve, it seriously helps (and I know how much I need it for this chapter)!

The officer was scribbling furiously in his notebook and Skye looked as though she was teetering on the edge of tears, the expression on her face a mingling of frustration and despair, and Coulson had the sudden urge to lay a hand on her shoulder as he had done the last time their search for details about her past had hit another dead-end. Or, the last time he had convinced her they'd hit a dead-end. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd told himself that all of the secrecy and stalling was in Skye's best interests, but the surging sea of guilt in his own stomach had not been quelled by this thought.

His attention was drawn back to the scene in front of him as Skye and the police officer exchanged a few words, none of which he'd heard, but the look on the officer's face was steely and screamed _not to be messed with_ from the 'v' of his frown to the thin line of his lips, pressed tightly together.

"Come on dude!" Skye exclaimed, "it's Christmas!"

The officer made a great show of checking his watch.

"Not for another forty-five minutes, it's not. And even if it were, it doesn't change the fact that you're trespassing on private property and the owners want you gone."

"I've been here for years and it's never been a problem before!" she cried and Coulson winced. _Not the smartest remark kid._

The officer scribbled out a line in his notebook and replaced it with new notes, but otherwise ignored Skye's accidental admission.

"Perhaps the new owners are less keen to have someone parking next to their café, stealing their Wi-Fi and occasionally their food?" he suggested, the sarcasm practically tangible in the air around them and Coulson bristled at his unprofessionalism. "So I'm going to stand here until you move, or I'll call my colleagues and we'll take you to the station. Ever since that building across the road got bombed a few months back, security's on high alert. Either you take the ticket and leave, or you get pulled to the station and your van gets searched, I hope there's nothing in there you wouldn't want us knowing about."

So it had turned out that SHIELD had said that the Centipede explosion was a terror threat, although Coulson thought it was something of an unorthodox – if sadly believable – choice. Still, he didn't miss the irony that the event which had brought Skye into SHIELD could just as easily get her arrested here, wherever (and whenever) they were now. He watched as a number of emotions swept across the girl's face. Her eyes still gave far too much away and as he watched her he knew she was considering her lack of income and job prospects, all of the equipment in her van (half of which she'd won in bets, the other half of which she'd filched from one place or another) and the Rising Tide information that would be at risk if her possessions were taken.

She sighed, and when a passing car's headlights lit up the alley for the briefest of moments, Coulson felt a raw jolt of sadness as the look of pure, weary defeat on her face.

"I've…got nowhere else to go," she admitted eventually, eyes pointed at her toes and voice barely above a whisper, hardly able to get the last few words out without it quivering.

At first he had thought the officer was going to simply tear out the ticket and hand it to her with a shrug or another careless comment, but once he'd ripped it out of the book he tore in half, and then into quarters.

"I'm sorry, I'm still going to need you to leave, but if you do so right now I won't write another one of these," he waved the book around absently.

"Seriously?" she looked genuinely shocked.

"It's Christmas, isn't it?" he told her stiffly, and Coulson had the impression that this was a man who was no more comfortable with doing someone a favour than he was accustomed to it, especially when Skye thanked him repeatedly. He looked almost relieved when she got into the van and he could retreat a few steps to give her enough room to back out of the alley.

As with Ward, Coulson soon found himself observing Skye from inside the van as she threw herself heavily into the driver's seat and craned her neck to check nothing in the back was going to fall to the floor and break. When she'd reached over and moved a few things around, she clipped her seatbelt on and twisted the key in the ignition, praying aloud that the van would start. He guessed it had been a long time since she'd actually driven it, and could see from where he sat that there was barely enough gas in the tank to get her out of the city.

It spluttered a few times, but her van didn't let her down and then they were reversing out of the alley and driving along the shining city roads. Despite the atmosphere in the van, the city looked vibrant and alive with Christmas decorations and lights everywhere and he allowed himself a moment to appreciate it all.

His mood changed when, after driving for no more than a few minutes, Coulson saw that the look on Skye's face had changed with the realisation that simply getting away without a fine wasn't much better than leaving with one; she still had to find somewhere to go.

While waiting for a red light to change, she tipped the contents of her purse onto her lap, and Coulson guessed that she had less than $5 of change there.

The hot tears of frustration were back as the lights shifted to amber and then to green, and this time she didn't bother trying to fight them as she pulled off again.

* * *

Before long Skye began talking aloud, mulling over her options amongst her tears and trying to think the problem through as he had heard her do countless times during a mission.

She quickly ruled out finding a motel or somewhere else to stay that would be too expensive, and eventually pulled over when she saw the needle telling her how much gas she had left tick down ominously.

He didn't know how long they sat there, but his feet were numb with cold by the time Skye wiped her eyes and heaved a shuddering sigh.

"Pull yourself together," she told herself sternly and her face was set as she clearly gave herself a mental pep-talk, fiddling with the loose threads on her sleeve as she did so.

Not for the first time, he wished fervently that he could have been a source of comfort to her in any way at all, the fatherly instinct he tried to deny he felt towards the younger members of his team flaring up again. She couldn't see him, couldn't even feel his presence and he'd have given a lot in that moment to lay a hand on her arm, give her a few words of comfort or offer a solution or two.

Instead he watched her put her head in her hands, elbows on her thighs and murmur incomprehensibly to herself.

After what Coulson guessed was ten more minutes, she scrabbled in the glove compartment for a tissue, wiping her face and trying to clean up her makeup before telling herself,

"Well, they didn't get rid of me the first time," (rather cryptically it seemed to Coulson) and pulling out into the road again, this time driving with a greater sense of purpose, or so it seemed.

On instinct he kept track of all the twists and turns they took; a left here, straight down the road for fifteen minutes, a right at the old library.

Eventually, after leaving the denser part of the city behind, they pulled into a small parking lot outside a tall building that seemed to be all grey stone and old-fashioned windows. It looked more than a little dreary, as did the small plot of land beside it, but there appeared to be a warm glow coming from within and there was a hum of voices from somewhere as they exited the van. Gravel crunched under Skye's feet (although not his own) as she made her way up to a rather archaic-looking set of half-open wooden doors, one with an old metal knocker on the front.

She drew a steadying breath in and hesitated for a moment, before pressing her palm to the door that was already slightly ajar. It fell open fully with an appropriate creak, and Coulson found himself in a small reception room which told him that this was clearly a holy place. Stacks of leaflets about Sunday Schools and Bible Colleges sat on a battered wooden table in the corner, along with sponsorship forms and a few flyers that asked 'What can God do for you?' and specified a date and time for a question and answer session.

He noted that the clock on the table ticked away the last few minutes to midnight before following as Skye tiptoed through a door in front of them, followed what seemed to be a familiar path and came out at the back of a church. She silently took a seat on an empty row of pews at the back..

This did not appear to be a bustling community church, but it was by no means empty. There were a fair few families sat towards the front, some apparently acquainted with each other and interacting cheerily, and there were a few lone figures dotted around in the middle rows who seemed mostly quiet and pensive. The front two rows on either side, however, were occupied by young children of all different ages, some of whom were chattering quietly but excitedly while others simply sat in silence, looking at their knees and drawing their coats tighter around their shoulders.

It was certainly cold in here. Skye fidgeted around next to him to keep warm, drawing the sleeves of her sweater over her thin fingers which were pale and mottled with the cold. Her breath fogged out in puffs in front of her.

A moment later, a sudden hush fell over the room and everyone, including Skye, rose as a priest entered and led a procession towards the altar and Coulson was thankful at that moment that no one could see him. Never having been raised in a religious family, or adhered to a particular code or spirituality, he had never attended what he now assumed had to be a Midnight Mass and therefore had no idea what to do. When the priest reached the altar, another man – Coulson wanted to use the term deacon, but couldn't be sure – placed a large, bound volume on the altar. Eventually, everyone in the procession and the vast majority of those in the congregation (although not Skye herself) made the sign of the cross and in a voice that was altogether softer than Coulson had been expecting the priest said,

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

While Coulson remained silent, everyone quietly murmured 'Amen', their heads bowed slightly, and Coulson thought he caught the sight of Skye's lips moving slightly. Eventually, after the entrance rites were spoken, everyone sat down and Coulson settled down for his first ever Midnight Mass.

* * *

Within an hour or so, the Mass had concluded and while he had to admit he had, in ways, found the ceremony moving, he was glad when everyone eventually rose to leave. It would not be his first choice for the ideal Christmas morning. Skye seemed a little lost, unsure perhaps of what she would do or where she would go now, when a gentle voice behind them caught their attention.

"If I'd have been told I'd see an unexpected face here tonight, only the word of God itself would have been enough to persuade me that it would have been you, Skye," said a short, slim woman behind them, and although the words seemed harsh, there was a gentle humour to her voice and a smile on her face which told Coulson that she did not mean any offence. She confirmed this when she placed a hand on one of Skye's arms (which were folded across her chest to ward off the cold) in a gesture Coulson had been longing to make all night. He silently thanked her.

"That doesn't, of course, mean that I'm not absolutely delighted to see you. Will you be joining us for a while?" she nodded to the door through which the rest of the congregation was heading.

"Oh, no, I don't know," Skye replied awkwardly, not quite meeting the sister's eye. "It's probably better if I head…" she trailed off, because she had nowhere to say she was going. Either familiar with Skye's situation, or astute enough to put two and two together, the sister gave her a sad smile, and gestured that she should sit back down again.

They sat in silence for a moment before Skye unnecessarily admitted, "I didn't have anywhere else to go tonight."

"Well, we always told you that He," she gestured to the figure on the cross above them, "will always be here for you. It's good to know that maybe you listened, even when you told everyone, including yourself, that you did not," she replied, smiling at Skye shrewdly, and Coulson almost had to laugh at the perfect image he had of a young Skye – well, a younger Skye – sat at the back of a classroom, trying for all her might to change the world by shouting merry hell at it, if you pardoned the turn of phrase under the circumstances.

"I almost felt like a fraud, being here. Because I never, you know," she hesitated, "believed like the others."

"Like _some_ of the others," the sister corrected gently. "When I told you all those years ago that God is Love, Skye, I meant it. He will love you no matter what, but if you can, you should try not to turn your back on Him."

She considered this for a moment. "It's just hard, you know. To believe I'm loved when I have," her voice hitched slightly, "nothing." She spat this last word bitterly, as though it were acid.

Coulson felt as though he were in a boxing match and had been left just long enough to recover from a KO before another, swift knock was dealt to him. Right in the stomach, or so it felt.

Skye, however, received another knowing smile.

"You always have something, is there really no one out there with whom you could spent Christmas?"

"No, not in the city." she replied, frustrated.

"Ah, but there is someone?"

"Yeah, I guess there's this guy, Miles," she admitted hesitantly and Coulson had to force himself to reassess his memories of Miles, to remember that he still made Skye happy and really, right now, anything that did that was a blessing. "He's a bit of a rogue, I guess, but a good guy. Yeah, definitely a good guy." She smiled to herself but it faded quickly. "He's in Texas though, and I couldn't exactly afford to travel there, I mean I can't even afford to fill my van up with gas for God's sake!" she exclaimed and it took her a moment before she realised her choice of words. She looked away from the sister again, "sorry."

"I think He'll let you off just this once," she said and earned herself a grin, weak though it was, from Skye.

They spoke a while longer, with Skye neglecting to mention the spot by the café or the work of the Rising Tide, and the sister trying to advise her on where she might go for Christmas (Coulson sensed that much of what Skye agreed to was done without much conviction, but to her credit she did not argue or disparage) until the sister apologised, saying that she had to go.

As they were about to part, Skye blurted out a sudden question about the day she was brought to St. Agnes', taking both herself and the sister by surprise.

The sister considered for a moment, the look of sadness on her face an unpleasant alternative to the smile Coulson had grown accustomed to even in the short time he had observed her.

"You know that I can't tell you about that Skye,"

"But – " Skye interrupted, but the sister cut across her.

"I wasn't here when you first arrived and when I did, the Mother Superior did not deem it necessary that I knew about it. And even if I did know, I couldn't tell you. I know it is hard for you to hear, but God very much does have a plan for you, and if He intends you to find what you seek, then you will find it," she told her gently, giving her another sad smile, asking again if she would join the rest of the congregation for a while and bidding her a final _Happy Christmas_ before leaving quietly when she refused.

Coulson watched as Skye hugged herself tighter, the tears back in her eyes as she stared up at the limp figure of Jesus hanging above her, head bowed forward in death, blood seeping from his wounds. Skye had once told Coulson that it had frightened her as a child, and still made her feel strange now. He couldn't help but agree with her.

It was only as he studied her face in that moment that he realised the change that had been brought about in Skye thanks to the renewed hope that she might one day find out the answers about her parents that she so dearly wanted. Sure, a lot of the change had come from training, from having a sense of achievement and purpose, but the chance to do her own research, to interact with the team about it all had given her a fresher outlook. He realised with a surprising burst of emotion that she did not have that here, now. She did not know that in the future Coulson was praying she did in fact have ahead of her, she would start on the journey to finding her answers (albeit one that Coulson was trying to keep until he found the right time to talk to her about it).

Suddenly, she turned on her heel and walked quickly towards the door, Coulson following a few paces behind, wondering where she would go now and knowing deep down that she had nowhere, and would probably just seek out a new parking spot and hope she didn't get caught again. He watched her get back into her van, but did not seem to be able to follow her. Eventually, she drove off and it was a moment before he realised that he was no longer at St. Agnes' but in an office, beside a water cooler of all things.

He wondered what more this whole sorry situation could throw at him now but thinking that it at least couldn't be worse than the look on Skye's face, unsatisfied and troubled, as she walked out of the orphanage. Then, however, he took in the overly large SHIELD crest mounted on the wall, the dreary cubicles all around and the deceptively small, dark-haired woman hanging up her coat as she walked through the door, face blank and eyes unseeing, and his heart sank right through his chest cavity and ended up somewhere near his toes.


	4. Melinda May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. I was meant to have finished this by today but work and Christmas kept me busy, sorry. I'm going to try and upload the FitzSimmons chapter later tonight and the final one tomorrow instead.
> 
> As ever, thanks for reading and let me know what you think!

He had to say, the office had quite the timeless feel to it.

Timeless in the sense that you'd have no idea that it were Christmas if it weren't for the digital clock displaying the time and date and a token tiny, fake Christmas tree atop a filing cabinet. It looked like it had forgotten that its real-life counterpart was supposed to be an evergreen; it had no decorations save for the flimsy star at the top and nearly as few needles. The little fake branches were almost bare, and it reminded Coulson of those threadbare teddy bears that had been used so many times they'd started to fall apart. Except, it looked more like no one had fixed or replaced the tree out of ambivalence rather than sentiment.

The tree, and the office, looked about as tired and worn-out as he felt and although it disappointed him to see May here, looking so bored and discontent, it does not surprise him that she was still working in administration in whatever mixed up place or universe or reality this was.

He remembers, will always remember, the day that she told him that she wanted to switch from field work to this. He'd told her that the change, and the break, would do her good, certain that she only meant it to be a temporary gig. She'd given him a small, sad smile and told him that her therapist had said the same thing.

_But I'm not going back, Phil_ , she'd told him quietly. _I can never go back_.

Everyone had thought that, with just a little time (or even lots of time), she'd be able to get herself back to the field, put Bahrain into that box almost all SHIELD agents had which was marked 'never open again, ever'. It was not because anyone thought that what had happened was easily surmounted, but because everyone knew Melinda May was one of the strongest people you'd ever meet.

But then, no one had truly seen what had happened that day and for all but May herself the mission had left the realms of reality and quickly became the stuff of legend, something to be exaggerated and nicknamed and joked about.

He knew the likes of FitzSimmons weren't being deliberately insensitive (well at least not to May) when they'd used the story to prank Skye, but he also knew that every time May overheard the story being wildly exaggerated and every time someone referred to her as 'the Cavalry' it was that little bit harder for her to leave it all behind.

He watched her now, as she carefully hung up her coat and scarf on the stand at the door, the last vestiges of the snow outside still clinging to the garments, and to her shoes as she rubbed her hands together in an attempt to warm up.

She gave a small smile to a young clerk at the desk by the door before moving over to her own workspace across the room and pressing a button on the computer, which started reluctantly with a rattle. She sat down on the rickety desk chair which seemed to squeak every time she turned to a certain, specifc angle. It was the kind of little detail that annoyed Coulson, and he knew those types of things; reparable objects remaining broken or the odd thing out of place or sequence, annoyed May too. She didn't seem to notice the chair anymore though, was probably habituated to it by now.

"Evening Agent May," the clerk said once she'd tucked her bag under her desk and he placed his pen down when she returned the greeting.

"You got the late shift this week, huh?" he asked. "And on Christmas Eve too? Bummer."

"I offered," May told him with a grim smile that didn't come close to reaching her eyes.

"No plans for the holidays then?"

"No," she replied quietly, face pensive. "Figured I'd volunteer and save someone with kids or plans or something from being asked to fill in," she told him noncommittally.

The young clerk (his badge had the name Kyle Griffin next to the tiny picture of him) didn't seem to know what to say to that, so hummed sympathetically and told her awkwardly that it was a nice thing to have done. It didn't seem to register with May and, although her face might have seemed unreadable to most, it was obvious to Coulson that she was lost in thought. He knew that look, it was one agents wore when they thought of the _might-have-beens_ if, at the fork in the road between SHIELD and _the other option_ a lifetime ago, you'd not taken the path to SHIELD; thoughts of friends and neighbours, families, wives, husbands, kids.

As if as a slight afterthought, May seemed to come to herself.

"What are your plans for the holidays?" she asked without much commitment.

Coulson knew her well enough to know that this was not because she didn't care about others (May's problem, although not an obvious one, had always been that she cared far too much about others – about their welfare, about how they felt and even what they thought). Even if it seemed that she was simply had no interest in the lives of others, Coulson knew that that was not the case and that it was much more complicated than that. It appeared that Kyle Griffin, perhaps too fresh into his own SHIELD career to know all about the Cavalry, did too, for he replied cheerily enough.

"Oh nothing special. I'm going to drive out to my parents' house tonight. Spend a few days with all the family."

"You have a big family?"

"Yeah, my mum's one of four, dad's one of six. I've got two brothers and a sister, all much older, so they've all got kids. Pretty much everyone's coming up."

"Sounds like it's going to be a crazy one."

"Yep. Not much rest but a lot of food and board games and terrible TV probably. Can't complain," he glanced at his computer screen. "And with that, I should be clocking off."

Silence fell as he packed up his things, wished Melinda a good night (and a good Christmas) and left.

May plugged her login details into the computer once it was fully up and running ( _MayM001, *******)_ and started rifling through the orange internal envelopes in her in-tray. Many of the papers she simply dated stamped before putting them back into the envelopes, crossing out her own name and filling in the next little box in her small, even handwriting, although she retained a steadily-growing pile for herself.

Meanwhile, a steady stream of clerks filed in and out, passing the administrative baton on to each other or so to speak, amid wishes of _'Merry Christmas!'_ and _'have a lovely day'_ and discussions of plans for the festivities.

No one else, he couldn't help but notice, made any attempt to engage with May and, for her part, she either didn't notice or pretended not to care.

After a while, everyone seemed to have settled into a working rhythm and no one spoke about much at all except for a little idle chit chat here or there. Given that it was the late shift, phones rarely rang except for internal calls, and even in these cases little conversation of any consequence took place. Coulson already knew that the late shift was always a more than a little dead, but SHIELD insisted that, due to time zone differences and the fact that many operations and missions were 24/7 affairs, it was necessary to have people fulfilling certain duties late into the night. He settled into a spare chair and checked the time.

_9.30. It was going to be a long night._

* * *

It had been two hours.

Two hours in which very little had actually happened. Coulson thought that seeing Ward fight with his brother and watching Skye sit shivering and alone at the back of a church had been bad and, in theory, should have been worse than just watching May work.

Somehow, however, he wasn't so sure. May had simply gotten on with her duties, quietly and competently as ever and, in one way, Coulson had felt a small flash of pride at the way in which she went about her job. Watching her for two hours was mind-numbing and doing this day-in, day-out when you'd once lived the life of a field agent, and when you were as sharp as May was, should have driven her crazy. Or at least made her completely despondent. And yet she went about her work as precisely and carefully as if she were doing research on the Bus.

Coulson had had too much time to reflect. It wasn't as though he and May didn't speak about the past when together on the Bus, or as if he hadn't watched her from afar just to see how she was doing. But here, he was watching a May who was working completely on auto-pilot (if this hadn't been a serious situation, and he hadn't been invisible and stuck in some worrisome sort of inbetween-world, he'd have acknowledged that that was a credible pun, worth at least a snicker). This was not the May who revelled in the solitude of driving the Bus, or who concentrated on research and missions, or who interacted with the team, this was a May who had so much time to think that she was stuck inside her own head, he could see it as he watched her face, as he took in the all the impossible emptiness and sadness there.

Her eyes were blank in a way he hadn't seen since the day he'd recruited her and it was almost as though he were seeing her walk away from the mission in Bahrain for the first time again.

Needless to say, it wasn't something he enjoyed; he hadn't even wanted to see it the first time.

And watching her tapping away at the clunky keyboard, sending emails and writing out highly important documents, his mind drifted against his own will to the Melinda May he had met all those years ago. She had kept everything close to her chest even then but the secrecy and reservation was set against a light-hearted, warm personality. She was always the first to diffuse a tense situation with a joke or two and he'd lost count of all the pranks she'd played on her team. People warmed to her easily, trusted her quickly.

That wasn't to say people didn't feel that way now. There was something about having Melinda May on a mission that gave you confidence (even forgetting the Cavalry legend) and even with her occasional friction with Skye, he had noticed instantly just how much respect and trust the team had given her even on their first mission together, even when FitzSimmons had believed she really _had_ been an administrator.

Seeing her here, without the glint in her eye that he was so used to, watching her bored and unfulfilled made him feel angry at what she had lost and guilty at all the times over the years he'd considered paying her a visit and had been distracted, forced to put it off until a better opportunity cropped up. If he could go back and make a number of changes in his life, that would be high on list.

He sighed, and went back to watching the clock.

* * *

Time ticked on slowly for another hour and a half. December 25th arrived, and the whole office came alive, if just for a moment. Someone had snuck a bottle or two in, and drinks were passed round and sipped surreptitiously, although no one truly expected a senior officer to walk in on Christmas morning.

A truly low point had been when a few clerks had handed out some gifts. It turned out that throughout the last two days, people had been dropping off and collecting gifts for some form of Secret Santa exchange. It was an exchange in which May (along with a few others) was not involved.

This in itself was not too problematic or surprising, except for the fact that Coulson knew for certain that if May had been invited to join in, she would have done so. Because, while she would never actively go out of her way to instigate (or involve herself in) something of the kind, she also wasn't the kind of person to churlishly turn it down. So many people forgot that May was not only naturally quiet but also quiet because she was constantly haunted by the ghosts of those she had fought against in Bahrain, haunted by herself and by her own actions. She wasn't naturally antisocial, didn't dislike people or interaction or even fun. In fact, he remembered a time when a much younger May would have delighted in the idea of such a thing as a Secret Santa (and now he came to think about it, why had their old team never actually done one of those?!) because it would have been the perfect opportunity to pull a good prank, or make a good joke or two.

Still, as with before she either did not notice the interaction, or pretended she had not. Even Coulson struggled to read the emotion on her face but still it was there in the miniscule movement when she clenched her jaw ever so slightly, and the way her eyes remained closed just a little too long for it to be the natural squint of tired eyes.

Not too long after this had occurred, she had risen to slot some envelopes into a garish yellow tray marked 'out' with a dirty sticky label. She quickly ducked out the door and he welcomed the opportunity to stretch his legs and follow her.

As it turned out, however, he only went a few paces when she stopped at the water cooler a few feet away from the door.

Two clerks, one a woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties, the other a good decade or two older, were whispering and giggling slightly, the Christmas drinks clearly taking effect. The subject of their gossip, someone apparently called Derek, was forgotten as they saw May approach and their conversation awkwardly came to a halt. May gave each a polite smile and greeting as she bent down to fill up a plastic cup with water, and Coulson watched as the two other women attempted a few pleasantries in which they were clearly not invested.

This time, he would have needed to be blind to have missed the look of hurt on May's face as she walked away, shutting the door to the office a little too forcefully behind her.

He knew, because she'd told him, that she hated that Bahrain still ruled her. It haunted her yes, but it also ruled her by not allowing her to move on, by keeping her from being the person she once was and by making her into the person she was now. A person who others treated like a killjoy and a stick in the mud, or who they were scared of.

The younger clerk, once she thought (mistakenly) that May was out of earshot, turned back to the other and whispered,

"God, I hope she didn't think we were talking about her. I just never know how to act around her, she always seems so strict, like she's always going to tell you off for something. I mean, I'm sure she's totally cool but…" she trailed off as the other woman voiced her agreement a little too loudly.

If only everyone knew, as he did, that this was the woman who, only a few months ago, had been so disturbed at two supposed geniuses' lack of creativity that she had decided a lesson in how the old pranks could still be the best was in order. At how, even though she had known he was watching, but had still proceeded to creep into Fitz's bunk, can of whipped cream in hand anyway.

But these days, not many were willing to give that Melinda a chance to show herself.

He supposed that it was their loss, really.

He watched as May shrugged her coat back on at 1.30 and, burying her hands in her pockets, traipsed through the maze of corridors and out into the dark.

The snow on the ground was old, crunchy and dirty and not at all pleasing to the eye. They came to a halt at a bus stop, May's breath fogging out in front of her as she visibly shivered slightly as she waited.

Eventually a very old, dirty bus rattled into view. May boarded quickly, paying her fare and taking a seat near the front. Others got on and off as they clattered along, but no one spoke as they weaved along the dark streets except when a young man in a holey old coat gave the Christmas gift of a rude, offensive comment to each of the other passengers as he got off.

May simply rolled her eyes and quitted the bus (a far cry from what Coulson now associated with the word) at the next stop, walking into a nearby apartment block and bypassing a broken elevator, climbing her way up flight after flight of stairs until she arrived on the seventh floor.

The door she opened a second later revealed a sparse, plain apartment that was little warmer than it had been outside. He watched as May abandoned her keys and her bag on the coffee table and, without so much as pausing, pushed open a door to a dark, empty bedroom, began shedding her coat and shoes and disappeared out of view. She reappeared a little while later, hair tied up loosely and dressed in sleepwear. She pushed the bedroom door so it almost closed and he heard the rustling of covers and the click of a light switch a moment later.

Unsure of what he was supposed to do, he noted that the little apartment looked barely lived in, and if it weren't for the food visible in the kitchen (a bunch of fresh, ripe bananas and a bag of apples sat in a fruit bowl, and there was a half-eaten loaf of brown bread beside it) he'd question whether anyone really did live here. There were no photographs or Christmas decorations, and the old, worn leather armchair felt icy cold as he sat down. However, he needn't have bothered, as it was only a moment later that the room seemed to shrink around him, the coffee table was suddenly a work desk piled high with papers and an uncomfortable-looking single bed appeared at his left, above which was a nondescript corkboard filled with memos and notes and, in one corner, photos of the smiling faces of two young scientists that he was not even slightly surprised to see by now.


	5. FitzSimmons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this? Another update? That would be because I was meant to finish this days ago and didn't. Anyway, as my Christmas present to anyone who's actually reading this on Christmas Eve/Christmas morning (seriously, it's not worth it, it's not even that good, you have better things to do friend) have more angst (which was supposed to be the cheesy fluffy stuff of the next chapter but I suck and I'm sorry).
> 
> But importantly, Happy Holidays to everyone. Whether you celebrate or not, take the time to relax, do whatever the heck you wanna do but just make sure you enjoy yourselves. You deserve it!

If Coulson had thought anything would have been certain, it was that Fitz and Simmons would have found a way to have a happy Christmas no matter what – wasn't making each other happy sort of what they did? The two had a funny way of skirting around the issue of just how much they cared for the other, and Coulson was convinced that their relationship went further than just friendly care and affection – the two almost physically needed each other by now. He thought of the number of people who were convinced they were more than just friends and he wondered, not for the first time, if they were the only two who hadn't been told that they were more a married couple than half the married couples Coulson had ever met.

He allowed himself an opportunity to smile fondly as he observed the photos pinned up above the bed. He hadn't had a lot of reasons to be happy recently, not with Tahiti, the Blake scenario, and what he'd seen just recently and yet the two of them were there, grinning out at him in various different settings. There were some he recognised from the lab noticeboard and from having inadvertently seen them when the their bunks were left open, but there were many others that were new to him. With a small smile, he cast his gaze over one in which they were sat with a small group of other young people in a little pub and over another in which they were in a family living room with a woman who could only be Fitz's mother. In another, they were sat outside somewhere green and bright, the sunlight on their faces almost as bright as their smiles. Yes, if Coulson had to guess that anyone would be having happy festive season, it would be FitzSimmons.

And in a fitting moment of irony, it was in that moment that Simmons burst through the door, her face pale, harassed and her eyes full of tears of what appeared to be frustration. She all but fell into her desk chair, tipped her head back and put a hand over her eyes, heaving a sigh. He knew that he must have looked just the same (minus the tears) filing Blake's paperwork at his desk earlier on and suddenly understood the concern the others had shown him over the past week.

She checked her watch and murmured something about being late. She took a moment, but in that resilient way he almost took for granted now, she pulled herself together, sitting forward a moment later and looking for all the world as though she were the content, happy Jemma Simmons that Coulson had come to know. She woke up her laptop from its sleeping state and logged on, seemingly waiting for something. It came, eventually, in the window that popped up and told her that she had an incoming Skype call from someone called James Simmons. An image flashed up a moment later of two men and two women who could only be the Simmons family, all trying to cram themselves into view and all smiling broadly.

"Hi everyone!" Jemma called out, happily enough that even Coulson questioned whether he had really seen her burst through the door, close to tears a moment earlier.

"Hey kid, Merry Christmas! How are you doing?" the young man in the centre of the screen (and obviously in charge of the computer and camera) asked, and Coulson had to assume that this was her brother. He had the same wavy brown hair, the same light brown eyes and wide, straight-toothed smile.

"Merry Christmas! I'm fine, how are you all? What time is it there?"

"It's 3 o'clock," an older man to the left of the screen replied, "did you get all of your presents, Jemma?" he asked and she nodded, thanking them and telling them about the use to which she'd already put some of the gifts.

The little family talked for around half an hour, with Jemma telling her parents what she'd been doing at SHIELD in the perfect balance between SHIELD confidentiality and familial expectation. The Simmons' related tales of their festive season and all was as happy as Coulson could have hoped upon discovering that the tiny SHIELD office was to be Jemma's home for Christmas Day.

That it wouldn't last, however, was something he was largely resigned to.

"Such a shame you couldn't come home this year," her mother said sadly and he saw the same emotion mirrored starkly on Jemma's face.

"I know," she said quietly, "but I knew it'd be a demanding job when I signed up," she carried more than a hint of regret in her words.

"And I see Leo couldn't be with you?" her mother went on, looking around as if Fitz might have been hiding somewhere and was about to surprise them by jumping into view, and it was then that Jemma's countenance truly changed.

"You know he can't just drop everything any more than I can," Jemma admonished her mother softly, real anger almost physically impossible for her. "He's based elsewhere at the moment and neither of us had any time off."

"But you're going to speak to him?"

"Yes, I'll call him right after this."

"I do like that boy," the elderly woman – Jemma's gran, Coulson had to assume – interjected absently. "Such a shame the two of you couldn't keep on working together. He's going to make you a fine husband one day."

Jemma groaned quietly, not enough not to be picked up on the microphone, although her brother grinned knowingly at her.

"Gran he's not my boyfriend, we're just friends. And you don't get to pick your team if you're as inexperienced as we are. We both said we'd have loved to have been placed together, but if a senior agent says they're putting us on a team, we have to go. There was no one who would keep us together, so we got split up – that's just the way SHIELD works."

Coulson felt a sudden burst of irritation. Even an idiot could see how well the two worked together. He himself hadn't hesitated in taking the two of them into the field together even if he had had to fight for it, would never have dreamed of splitting them up.

Suddenly, there was an interruption of some kind within the Simmons house, during which her parents disappeared.

"But the two of you keep in touch right?" her brother asked casually once he'd checked over his shoulder that the others were thoroughly distracted. "I can't ever imagine you two growing apart!" he exclaimed, but failed to fully mask the concern in his voice.

Coulson silently agreed with him. Without her parents present, however, and apparently content in the knowledge that her grandmother's concentration had drifted to the commotion off camera, Jemma clearly felt more able to be honest with her brother. The smile was gone now, and she was frowning.

"It's not that simple James. I wish it were," she sighed, and her tone, like her words, was completely candid, "but I haven't spoken to Fitz in months and I miss him. I have no clue what's going on with him right now. I mean, we tried to stay in touch and it worked at first but then, I don't know, he didn't reply to my last text and I don't blame him, because I kept forgetting to return his last call until it got to the point where it was too late, or too awkward – I don't know! – and it just never happened," she told him sadly and her brother looked genuinely surprised.

"It happens though Jem, we both had that happen when we went to university. I never spoke to my friends at home for weeks, but when I got home, it was just the same," he told her, trying (and failing) to be as chipper with her as she had been with him earlier – clearly being a terrible liar was a Simmons family trait.

"I know but it's not been weeks, it's been months. You guys think I've been bad at staying in touch with you, right? Well it's been even worse with Fitz. It feels awkward now, not like it used to at all. Even when he texted to suggest I call on Christmas Day, I didn't know what to say back, except 'okay speak then'. And it's no use looking at me like that!" indeed, her brother was throwing her a look Coulson couldn't quite read.

"One, I'm referring to our _friendship_ , nothing more. Two, it's not like I can do anything about it; the team is so busy here, I can barely finish one thing before they ask me to try and study another sample or find another solution to another problem. I think they think what I do is easy. It's all 'give that to Simmons, she'll sort it' or 'Simmons when you have time, here's another hundred pages of chemical analysis to go through'. There's hardly time to write a proper message or letter or have a good long chat. It's all I can do to shower and put my pyjamas on at the end of the day!"

It was at this that her parents returned and even without the full context they looked upset at what little they'd heard.

"But you are eating well, and sleeping enough aren't you dear?" her mother asked immediately.

"Yes, mum," Jemma sighed, although it was now clear that this was a lie, and looking at her now Coulson thought she looked a little thinner than he was accustomed to seeing her.

As it was, the five talked for a few moments more before Jemma made her excuses and her parents explained that someone or other had arrived at the house, and Jemma hung up.

She then hovered over the 'video call' button next to Fitz's name for a long while. Eventually, she – to Coulson's shock even in spite of what he had heard – appeared to steel herself before clicking the button. For his part, Fitz must also have been waiting, because the call connected straight away and he appeared, ever so slightly pixelated and a little jerky, but he was there all the same.

"Hi Fitz! Merry Christmas!" the forced happiness was back and for the second time Coulson looked at the face of a team member who cared far more about other people than about themselves and felt another pang of guilt that he mightn't check in often enough with them (and he certainly hadn't in the last few weeks) as he should.

"Uh…hey!...Jemma! Merry Christmas! Ah…damn, sorry hang on a minute!" Fitz replied and disappeared. The sound of a door closing came through her laptop speakers a moment later and background noise Coulson hadn't even really registered was suddenly considerably muted.

"Sorry," Fitz appeared again. "They're having some sort of…I dunno, Christmas party…thing outside," he told her.

"Oh, did I call you away from something?"

"No, no I wasn't really going to join in anyway."

Coulson knew, sitting there and listening to Fitz, that hidden in those words was the statement ' _I'd much rather talk to you'_ but he sensed that Jemma did not. If he could fault those two for anything, it was that they were never clear enough with each other and he had a sneaking suspicion each underestimated just how much the other cared about them.

"So, uh, how's things?" Jemma asked after an unnaturally long pause, her voice just a little too high. Coulson winced. This was almost as bad as watching the Ward brothers attempt to reconnect.

"Yeah, not bad. Busy. I feel like I've not slept in about a year. But fine, other than that. How about you?"

Fitz's voice did not have that same excitable edge to it and he sounded as tired as Jemma looked. Coulson couldn't help but wonder just how hard these teams were working the two agents. They didn't seem half as young as they did on the Bus. Even when Jemma had been infected, she didn't seem as mature and tired as this.

"The same, really," she started, a lilt to her voice suggesting that she was about to go on but she trailed off into another uncomfortable silence.

"Listen, urm, sorry I've not sent you a present this year," Fitz said awkwardly, running a hand over the back of his neck. "It's just, well, I've been a bit busy," he finished lamely.

"No, it's fine," she assured him and that, at least, sounded genuine. "I'm sorry too, and I understand. I've been too busy to do much of anything for Christmas this year. I didn't even decorate," she told him sadly.

"I don't like that this is the first time since we met that I didn't get you at least a card," Fitz admitted, evidently frustrated and that at least brought a little grin of relief to Coulson's face. "But you know…"

"…there's not a lot we can do about it," she finished, but it was not with the same conviction with which they usually finished each other's sentences.

They chatted for a little while, mostly details about science and about missions that they shouldn't really be talking about, but at least it was something. And yet even that came to an end more quickly and much less naturally than he had ever seen, even when Fitz had returned from Ossetia and there'd been an unknown _something_ that Coulson, Skye and Ward had picked up on.

"So, I have a little time off coming up," Fitz said eventually, "and I thought, well, I don't like this," he gestured between his screen and himself and he didn't need to explain further, even without their little psychic link (as Skye called it) Jemma knew what he meant. A complete stranger would know what he meant. Heck, even the monkey he so desperately wanted would have known what he meant. The regretful, awkward tension was practically palpable even though they weren't actually in the same room.

"Me neither," she half-whispered, voice a little rough.

"So I thought I could come up for your birthday maybe? I know someone who lives in the city, I could stay with them and we could, you know, hang out? Properly, if you wanted to?"

When she didn't react immediately, the little glimmer of hope on his face was instantly gone.

"Fitz, that sounds great, but I have to go on a stupid workshop thing that whole week in January," she told him, thumbing through the pages in her diary quickly.

"Oh, no, that's not a problem," he appeared to be checking dates on his end to, because he suggested an alternative.

Coulson watched helplessly as every spare day or week he could get off (agents in their position were often told which days they'd have off, rather than offered a choice of a few) was suggested, only for her to have seminars, conferences and big red crosses through all of them. From this end he knew that she was telling the truth, but her voice was so unlike her own as she fought to keep from crying that it did not actually sound that way to him or, indeed to Fitz, who looked more than a little hurt, except that Jemma was so busy worrying a tiny pink burn on her hand that she had not noticed.

"Okay, well, if you don't want to, that's fine, I just thought…" Fitz began, and he didn't sound angry or haughty at all, just upset and confused.

At that very moment, there was a knock at his door and another young man appeared, saying something that Coulson couldn't quite detect. As soon as he'd gone, Jemma spoke, her voice hushed and raw with emotion.

"Fitz, it wasn't that – "

"Look, I'm really sorry but I've been called away. A _nice_ Christmas day mission of some kind," he blurted out sarcastically, looking as upset as Jemma did but evidently too stressed as he scrabbled to pick up bits of paper and a handful of instruments from his desk, to really deal with it.

"Some other time then?" she asked, her tone almost a little wild.

"Yeah, definitely, look I'm really sorry. Enjoy the rest of the day, yeah?"

And with that, the unknown agent was back, speaking urgently and Fitz must have flipped his laptop shut because the call cut out.

Almost instantly, and with an unpleasant sweeping sensation in his stomach, he felt as though the room were moving out from under his feet as the figure of Jemma, still hunched at her desk, a few stray tears escaping down her cheeks, faded completely into black.


	6. The Team

He jerked awake with an undignified grunt, his neck stiff and his wrist almost completely numb from having propped up his head for so long. The clock next to him read 8.51. He had somehow slept through the night, but felt as though he hadn’t rested at all.

He blinked stupidly for a moment, trying to clear his eyes and his head and to remember why on earth he was asleep at his desk when everything came flooding back to him, an intense tidal wave of memories he couldn’t be sure were all even real; his own lack of holiday cheer, and then a lonely Ward crouched at the headstone of his brother, the look on Skye’s face as she drove off to who knows where, a disenchanted, lacklustre May shutting the door on her empty apartment and the hurt, distant looks worn by both halves of FitzSimmons as, for the first time ever, Coulson witnessed them fail to work something out together. If he never saw the pained, saddened worn by each member of his team ever again, it’d be too soon.

He wasn’t sure what had just happened to him, whether he’d simply dreamt up all of those scenarios because of his dark mood and the monotonous task of filling in paperwork, or whether something less straightforward had happened (but he knew already that he’d cling firmly to the former theory with all he had). He didn’t know why he’d imagined the particular details he had, but he wished sincerely that he’d never been witness to any of it, even while knowing that that was an entirely futile thing to wish.

He’d always cared about the team, of course he had. And not just as SHIELD agents but as individuals, as people with their own stories, their own hopes and fears. Whether it had been fighting to keep his emotions at bay as he watched Jemma succumb to an alien virus or listened to Skye crying alone after an argument with May, whether it had been the jolt of fear as he learnt that Ward and Fitz had been abandoned in Ossetia or even whether it was the memory of the single broken look which had told him, years ago, that Melinda May would never truly walk out of that building in Bahrain, this had never just been about managing an expendable, faceless group of people. But last night had somehow been different, even more painful than all of those other trials perhaps. Maybe it was the vividness of Ward’s face, so pale and tired, or the sound of Jemma crying after she ended her call with Fitz. Or maybe it was because he had been powerless last night when, here and now, he knew he would drag himself through hell and high water to help a team member who needed it, whether that be by arranging a rescue mission headed by the Cavalry itself, or a hand on Skye’s shoulder and a smile in May’s direction.

He stretched to try and ease the tension in his joints, and in his mind, letting out a small contented sound as he did so and rose a moment later. Turning the light in his tiny bathroom on with a firm _click!_ , he let the cold water run for a moment before splashing a generous amount on his face, suppressing a shudder as he did so. For a short spell, he stared himself down in the mirror, trying to get a handle on what had happened and on what he felt.

Shutting the water off, he ran a hand over his face trying to wipe some of the water away, palm catching over the stubble on his chin. He really needed to shave. He fumbled in the cabinet for a razor and set about the task, neatly putting everything away once he was done.

Rather than sitting back down once he re-entered his room he began pacing around, attempting to organise his thoughts but ultimately with little success. He tried to console himself with the thought that at least the team wouldn’t _actually_ be at a cemetery or alone in a cold apartment this year. At least they’d have each…

And that was when it hit him, when he realised. In this world, the one where he was awake and had a crick in his neck and had just stubbed a toe on his desk, and not the world where tombstones disappeared between his fingers and he got into cars without knowing how, _none of those things had happened this Christmas morning._ Distance and separation had not put a strain on an otherwise as-close-to-perfect-as-is-humanly-possible friendship that two young scientists were too overworked and exhausted to nurture. A memory that felt almost as unreal as the night’s visions of his team sprang suddenly to mind, a memory of an argument he’d had with FitzSimmons’ SO before offering them a place on the team, an argument in which he’d refused to take one without other despite Agent Somethingorother’s insistence that they were both simply too talented to work only for a single team and that SHIELD needed their skills spread out more equitably. The realisation of his own role in keeping them together made him feel immeasurably less gloomy, as did the knowledge that May was not really at that dreary apartment, but was likely downstairs with the team, watching them with her usual half-concealed amusement and Ward wouldn’t be drinking himself silly in some bar, but probably sharing a little too much mulled wine with Skye who might still be in a mobile home, but a much warmer, fuller mobile home than the last one. One so full that he imagined she would be able to force Christmas crackers onto everyone, fighting with Fitz over who would read out the terrible jokes while Jemma, sweet, guileless Jemma, would be laughing and content with this makeshift family, even if he knew she would always be a little homesick for her real one.

Had he really, truly done that? Avoided all of those horrible things without knowing it? It was enough to make him forget about Blake and Tahiti and Asgardian sceptres for just a moment. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if the paperwork went untended for one day, perhaps it wouldn’t be too late to join the team after all. Unless, as he half-suspected, his failure to show any interest in their celebrations over the past few days had done too much damage; offended the always slightly too-enthusiastic Skye, or annoyed the sometimes ever so slightly prickly Fitz. But then, there was only one way to find out.

Coming to an abrupt halt, he unbuttoned his jacket and hung up his clothes as he stepped out of his suit, swapping them for slightly more comfortable attire ( _and only because it was more comfortable_ , he told himself, not at all because he knew it would get a joke out of Skye, who in turn would get a laugh from Fitzsimmons). He poked his head out of his door and, sure enough, heard the soft murmur of voices from below. Quietly, he made his way downstairs.

“No, no way. Just trust me, he’ll be here,” he heard Skye protest.

“Oh come on, just one won’t hurt!” Fitz argued back, sounding slightly haughty.

“No Fitz, we agreed,” Jemma insisted in that stern but somehow fond voice she only seemed able to use on him and the two descended into their customary bickering.

It was Ward who noticed him first and the younger man watched as he hovered nearby, torn between approaching his team and simply observing them from the side-lines. Coulson took a moment to take in the sight of the communal area, in all its tinsel-covered glory, as the five team members sat together, half of them still in their pyjamas like children, around the coffee table on which stood an absurdly small tree they had procured from somewhere or other. It fit the table well enough, but was dwarfed by almost every one of the presents beside it. So, they really hadn’t been joking about gift-giving. He wished he had known.

“Sir,” Ward greeted him eventually, and everyone looked suddenly in his direction, Skye and Jemma beaming at him.

“You joining us?” May asked, her tone as measured and clipped as ever, but its usual effect was offset by the lilac paper hat that she had balanced on her head at a rather jaunty angle. He wondered for a moment how much coaxing _that_ had taken. 

He nodded and took the last remaining seat even as Skye said confidently,

“Course he’s joining us, wouldn’t be Christmas without AC,” her tone and smile so warm and genuine and full of faith it brought a lump to his throat and made his heart do a jump that he wasn’t sure he was comfortable with since it had been pierced by a sceptre.

“Right, good well in that case,” Fitz said, his tone one of mock-seriousness as though the business of opening gifts simply could not be allowed to be deferred for any longer, “time for presents.”

He tossed the first one to Skye, who ripped it open without hesitation, apparently delighted at whatever she found in the wrappings. Jemma fished out two parcels wrapped in similar paper, giving the first to Ward and the other to Coulson himself.

“But I didn’t…” they began in unison, both confused.

“Which is why,” May interjected, “you guys are only getting a couple,” she rifled through the packages nearest to her, passing one over to Jemma.

“While those of us who actually ventured into the city and braved the holiday crowds,” Jemma went on, in her usual habit of finishing others’ sentences, “get a veritable treasure trove of gifts!”

“Yeah that and the fact that you two are the hardest people in the world to buy presents for,” Fitz finished, extracting a DVD boxset from his own parcel. “Thanks Skye!”

Coulson tore the paper off his own gift and found an extremely rare Captain America 1945 tour poster, in near-perfect condition. Perplexed at where they might have found such a thing, he looked up to find 3 pairs of expectant young eyes staring at him.

“It’s great guys, thank you!” he told them earnestly and they seemed to sigh in relief.

“We’ve been trying to check you didn’t have one like that all week!” Skye admitted with a laugh.

“But it’s been impossible to get you out of your office,” May told him pointedly and he met her eye guiltily, but there was no real anger in her voice, only warmth.

And it was in that moment that he realised that he, for the first time since Tahiti, felt truly warm, inside and out.

Once they were all surrounded by ripped paper, empty bags and piles of presents, Jemma eventually rose and looked at May.

“Some of us have a lot of cooking to be getting on with,” she explained and made her way to her bunk, apparently to change.

“It’s not Christmas if you don’t have a proper Christmas meal,” Fitz told a confused Ward and Coulson, “all of us agreed.”

“I don’t think Simmons was too keen to take on the challenge until I told her I wasn’t a complete disaster in the kitchen like the rest of you,” May said good-naturedly. “And we’ve been up for ages getting everything ready, so you can all clean up the mess and lay the table.” She had her back to the rest of the team as she walked by but it was hard for Coulson to miss the relaxed smile on her face, and perhaps it was not the wide, toothy grin, so full of mystery and mischievousness a younger, carefree Melinda May had once offered so freely, but it was the first genuine smile he had seen from her in a very long time.

 

* * *

 

In the end, the team passed a pleasant day together which was quite literally filled with food, drink and merriment.

And as the evening descended, Coulson would not hesitate in saying that even though it wasn’t snowing outside, the limited cooking facilities had somewhat counteracted Jemma and May’s cooking skills and the cracker jokes had made even Ward (a secret pun-lover) cringe (maybe even more than the pale pink hat that Skye forced onto his head) he now couldn’t imagine a scenario in which he’d spent Christmas Day alone, filling in Blake’s forms. As the light outside gradually dimmed to nothing and the credits rolled on a version of the Doctor Who Christmas Special that he was going to pretend wasn’t illegally downloaded (call it his present to Fitz), Coulson couldn’t help but think that maybe it was never too late to start enjoying Christmas.

He glanced around and surveyed his team contentedly; Ward and Skye were half-asleep on one couch, an empty bottle of mulled wine on the table in front of them, while FitzSimmons, who were opening the latest edition to the Bus’ supply of board games, occupied the other. He caught sight of May and found her wearing a knowing look as she watched him from the armchair that the team had come to refer to as ‘her chair’ and usually gave a wide berth, even when she was in the cockpit.

“Don’t even say it,” he joked, his voice low but FitzSimmons didn’t indicate that they were listening. May merely raised an eyebrow innocently, and there was a glimmer of his old friend in her eyes.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she replied without missing a beat and he flashed her a playful look.

They sat in silence for a moment, May absently running a finger around the rim of her glass.

“They did this for you, you know,” she told him quietly. “Even Ward. He’s not a Christmas person, but he told me that he thought it was a good idea. I think he might even have enjoyed himself,” she joked. Another pause. “They care, Coulson,” she told him, her voice truly serious for the first time all day.  “As do I. Is anything troubling you? Anything you want to talk about?”

He looked at her, considered telling her everything he had seen last night, knowing that she’d listen and give him the benefit of the doubt. He almost craved the unique, measured perspective she so often brought to others’ problems, but looking at her there, still wearing the lilac hat and the ghost of the smile from earlier, he knew he wouldn’t do it, knew deep down that he didn’t really need to anymore.

“No, not anymore. Everything’s great,” he told her, meaning every word.

And so it was.

 

_Fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [“He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle  
> And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.  
> But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,  
> “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!”]
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read, left kudos or commented this. Thanks especially to my lovely friend Anja, who checked the summaries for all the characters when she absolutely had better things to be doing even if she was wonderful enough to insist otherwise. Anyway, here’s hoping everyone had a wonderful day and I wish you all a happy and healthy New Year.


End file.
